Reverberations
by Chiriru
Summary: Every action taken effects the course of your life.
1. Part I : Reverberations

AN: This is what happens when your Muse returns at 1 AM in the morning during a huge thunderstorm after hanging out a "Chloe's Gunna DIE!" type thread thing. It's also a thing that "could" happen but I haven't seen it suggested very much.  
  
Poor, odd me. It's not a lot of Chlark, it's hinting at Plana and Chlex and Lanex. And none of it is all that sweet. It is Chloe-centric. Probably the only semi-good thing about it.  
  
Extra special huggles to Mark (Or should I dub him Beta-Markle?) who did a fantastic job as a beta. Just absolutely wonderful job. *huggles for Mark* Comments and feedback (any which way) is luved. ^^ -------------------------  
  
"Reverberations"  
  
by Chiri  
  
---------------------------------------------- Chloe Sullivan was dead. Not physically, not yet. But everything she was or had been was taken. A shattered memory in a hallow body, the broken will of a woman once strong.  
  
She was a woman who had made a grave error and who had been far too arrogant in her pursuit. Maybe her naivete was partly to blame but, it was arrogance all the same.  
  
She could remember when she had hopes. Hopes, dreams, and aspirations, all of them attainable, all of them possible.  
  
Now she had nothing.  
  
She could remember the day it happened. The day when she lost what had been her life. She was straight out of college then, and working part-time at the Metropolis Globe. She was a hop, skip, and a jump away from making it big... from making it at the Planet.  
  
She didn't care the price, she didn't care if it had to be freelance at first. She didn't care at all.  
  
That carelessness had cost her everything.  
  
Clark had supported her, had helped her. Had held her up when things turned out wrong. After Lori had left, she was there. She had stuck by him, helped him through.  
  
So it only stood as fact that a few years later he would help her. The diamond band around her finger only attested to the lengths he was willing to go, the mountains he would move. And could if he put his mind to it.  
  
But, no, the story was the single minded goal. She had never been rational, a rational woman would of cared more about her relationship or her family, or would have even taken a day off.  
  
Chloe was far from rational. She was obsessed. What had been passing comment from her father had raised her suspicion. Meeting with sources, she found out more and more of the truth. It was a horrible, bitter reality.  
  
When the wool is removed from one's eyes, they see. And for a moment they see in such perfect clarity what is good and what is bad. They have an epiphany. But the eyes want to close to all that is bad and evil. They want the wool. And no matter how many times one turns their head, shuts their eyes, or tries to forget, the ugliness that can be truth remains, imprinted on the mind.  
  
She had found the truth. Her bold, self-assured and self-acclaimed seeker had found it. And more than anything she had wanted to forget. To go back and erase memories. To make her turn towards the Kent's back alley dirt road instead of the paved lining to the Luthor Estate.  
  
She had confronted Lex. First as a friend, second as a journalist. It wasn't that she knew a secret. It was that she knew all his secrets. Especially the ones concerning her fiancée.  
  
When she had found out originally, there had been a slight rift. She was scared, unbelieving. But Clark Kent hadn't given up on her, and she came around. Happily, one could add.  
  
She had always felt guilty for her reaction, but she swore on that day to protect him. She was mortal and vulnerable. And she would save him, from what ever would harm him.  
  
Her pompous attitude strode in with an ultimatum. She swore she could stop the billionaire. But life came to a crashing halt when Lex Luthor dealt out a few ultimatums of his own.  
  
At first she thought little of it. What she should have known then. Slowly, her life was eaten away. She wouldn't give up, although she knew he was giving her time to change her mind.  
  
When her father disappeared for good, is when she let it go. She promised herself she would save him. Finishing her tango with the Devil himself was the only way now. The heartbroken look of her lover's as she dropped a ring in his palm haunted her everynight.  
  
She knows she failed to do in life what she had set out for. Lofty ideals only come crashing down, and she knew that. That's what she beat herself up with most. That she knew.  
  
Lex wanted her secrets, her sources. She refused. What good was it now? She had nothing left to loose, nothing left to hold onto.  
  
For a while, Death would of been a nice, swift and sweet gift. But Luthor presents always have riders attached, and Lex wasn't up for a nice game of Russian Roulette right now.  
  
Within a week for confronting Clark with her engagement ring, very little of her existed. Her father's home, her mother's apartment, and her rooms were all emptied, gone. One night she found her quater's filled with her own property. She never asked why, but it's been there ever since.  
  
She had danced with the Devil for years now. His secrets and hers, on issues and cover ups. In bed. If she had something worth anything anymore, she'd care.  
  
Nothing had meaning nor value.  
  
She used to live on the edge. Breaking into his warehouses, meeting sources, living a life that could be just as dangerous as any spy.  
  
Now danger had another meaning.  
  
Danger was calling Lois Lane on the telephone and dropping bread crumbs. Danger was cleaning up certain information after Superman stops her boss in his tracks. Danger was her nightly hack to keep the secret of the man she still loved safe. Danger was looking Lex in the eye every morning and lying her ass off to keep alive another day.  
  
The man who used to try and befriend a teenage editor seemed to have given her everything to the outside world. As Press Secretary, it seemed as if her life was one to be envied by other people in the United States.  
  
It wasn't.  
  
She wasn't blind, she still could feel the gilded cage around her, the hand of constant death ever gripping at her throat. Just waiting for the one step that would send her to her doom.  
  
Words she didn't write and thoughts she didn't believe came constantly from her perfectly red lips. Her small stature was in a perfectly tailored suit, her hair perfectly styled. Every part of her fitting into Lex Luthor's perfect world, his perfect country.  
  
Every now and again she'd see Pete in the halls. He'd spare her a glance, just one. She wonders if her eyes are as haunted as his, or if he keeps wondering if that's really her. Wondering what did Luthor do to bring her so far from herself.  
  
She read the papers.  
  
'Lane & Kent' were her favorites. Sometimes, when she was day dreaming, it will read 'Sullivan & Kent' like it used to back in days of the Torch and the Harbinger. Or maybe even, 'Kent & Kent' if it was a particularly good daydream.  
  
She never allowed Lex to know she read the paper, although she did suppose he knew. She thinks that he probably let it slide as long as she said nothing about a former cheerleader and wife of his Vice President that visited his room on a weekly schedule.  
  
And she wondered why that was important to him. Why would she complain about a day off from having to share her bed with a man she didn't love, but loathed?  
  
Some days, she would pray for release, a release from life. She wondered if Clark even remembered her or if Pete really knew what Lana was doing. She pondered what really turned Lex evil, it had to go further back than the story she had. She wondered how long she could keep Clark safe and if Lex already knew and let her keep trying to save her ex. To keep that wool over her eyes.  
  
If so, she really must thank him, properly.  
  
Ignorance was bliss, and she didn't have much of it left. Just enough to content her every once in a while, just enough to keep her from two quick and deep slashes up her arms, just enough to make her think she could still change the world. That she could still show the world the truth.  
  
She was stuck, in a fate worse than death. Lana used to ask her if she ever thought fate was cruel, if her life wasn't what it was supposed to be. She said 'no.' She knew now that she was wrong. And there was nothing she could do to change the err of her ways.  
  
Chloe Sullivan was dead, but the worst part was, she kept living.  
  
-fin- 


	2. Part II : Imbroglio

AN: Okay. Reverb was supposed to be my only angst, my one shot. And then inspiration bit. And now I'm kind of wondering if this is going to turn into an out-of-order account of this (now AU, I suppose) world. This is set after Reverb (a few years) and some other thing have happened and Clark is trying to deal. So. ^.^  
  
And upon thinking about it, I do believe it was a certain spoiler that made me come down off of "Coquet's" fluffiness. *sighs* Shipping notes: Maybe a touch more Chlark, probably some hidden Clois... Hm. Not much. ^.^  
  
Def. of "imbroglio" - (1) a difficult or intricate situation; an entanglement, (2) a confused or complicated disagreement, or (3) a confused heap; a tangle.  
  
----------------------------------------------------  
  
Reverberations: Part II - Imbroglio  
  
by Chiri  
  
---------------------------------------------------- There was a room Clark never entered, not anymore. It wasn't in a house or home, it wasn't for sentimentality. He feared what he would do if he went in.  
  
Would he let anger consume him? Would he let vile, bitter hatred brew inside? Part of him recognized that was a definate possibility. A lone man gone crazy, the papers would say. A nurse would claim he ripped out the walls, literally. Would all his pent up frustration be taken out on everything inside? Destroying all that was within?  
  
Or, instead of anger, would his soul dive into desperateness? Would the mere sight of everything with in leave him broken, stranded? Reliving the horrors.  
  
What he feared most was to feel nothing at all.  
  
And the whole reason these questions came up was for a simple fact. It was time to pay the bills. Phone, electric... and hospital.  
  
Lois had tried to tell him to let go. She didn't understand. He could never let go. Never. She didn't even realize the direct correlation between her story and the room, the bill.  
  
Lois had her sister, her parents. He had her parents. Pete and Lana had moved on. Lex had never cared anyways.  
  
Her father was dead.  
  
Her mother was dead.  
  
She never married.  
  
She was the last, as was he. He couldn't choose for her. She couldn't choose for herself. What was left? Continue the routine.  
  
He paid the bill. He shrugged off doctors again trying to say that his hope was futile. That it was time to turn the machines off. He walked past the door, listened.  
  
Clicks, hums, whurs.  
  
She was still alive. Someday she'd return. And he knew he would make Lex pay for what had happened. He'd invite her over for coffee sometime. Two no-fat, no-foam lattes.  
  
Clark would introduce her to the reporter she had been helping, and his co- worker, Lois. Lois, who had been sorting through his mail that night, who had brought up everything he wouldn't... couldn't say.  
  
And everything would be fine again. She'd see. Everyone would see. Life would be good, she could start writing again. She wouldn't have to live in fear. He would protect her, like he should have. Everything would be fine, everything would be so perfect.  
  
Just like it was. Before the 'accident' in her rooms. Before Lex shot her for sharing too much. Oh, there was no proof. Hitmen kind of fade away. But it was Lex.  
  
It was always Lex.  
  
A friendship, betrayed. He had trusted Lex. He would have exposed it all to save the one guy he thought understood what it was to be different. Not in the same way, but different.  
  
He was waiting for her. Waiting for her to come up in her old Falcon she drove while in town just for the hell of it. She was late. And then she was gone. Not from him, but from the world. He had looked. He had looked everywhere. Around the world, but they were always two steps ahead.  
  
And then one day... after he started working... Lois got a phone call. Then - a few days later - she was on the television. She was giving a press conference for Lex Luthor, President of the United States. He couldn't believe it was her. He couldn't believe what she was saying.  
  
Then, then the assisination. But Lex had failed. She was alive. He had seen that. He saw her, for a moment. She'd croaked out his name, his real name. Not 'Superman,' not 'Kal-el.'  
  
"Clark."  
  
She had known. She had always known, even when she wasn't aware of it. Her eyes had pierced him. Thankful, sad, and happy. And for a moment she seemed so alive, everything that went into living was there and boldly defying the bullet wounds. The moment passed, she gradually slipped away.  
  
Room 108.  
  
That was always the room she had gone into. The walls were disgustingly pink and teal. She hated that. They only had basic cable and no computer interlink. That irked her. And they had made her eat jello, those fascists.  
  
He had been in that room too many times. Sat through the night when Lex had swore to find who had hurt her. Stayed up while she tried not to admit her claustrophobia or why she never wanted to be buried. His mind could remember every single moment with her. Every single time he thought of her.  
  
It had taken a bit longer to move her here after the immediate care in Washington. But she was safe here. Lex had forgotten this place -- or at least purposefully ignored it.  
  
He almost entered; he could hear her calling him. He needed her. He needed his friend if not his fiancee.  
  
"I mean, I'm sure after a few weeks you'll forget all about me."  
  
He would never forget. It was for her. The reason he was who he was. The reason he uncovered the truth now. The reason he kept coming here.  
  
He let go of the door handle, forcing himself to walk away. It would do no good to be spotted here, at the door of a "Jane Doe." Why bring the monster's attention to the fallen, the weak?  
  
He walked on by, like he had been doing every month for three years. Inside, the rise and fall of her chest was even. The respirator saw to that. Her eyes were closed peacefully, all the superficial bruises long ago healed. Muscle stimulators were on her legs and arms, keeping them firm. Her mouth was quirked up, slightly. The heart monitor beeped, a steady pulse. She wouldn't wake up, she was lost.  
  
The doctor said she was in a coma, one that she would probably never wake up from. He chose to believe in her. He always believed the best in people. After all, Chloe Sullivan lived, and that wouldn't have  
  
happened if not to prove that some day... some how... she would return.  
  
-ending- 


	3. Part III : Conflagration

AN: Part three! Hee. Fresh off the press, so to speak. Really. Thought up today (actually from a different Character's view point, which I'm glad I changed). And was written out in about an hour or so. Mark did his normal fanasticastic Beta job. This one isn't as angsty. Hee. But I hope I've kept that deep feeling. Just another layer in the reverb world - somewhere between part 1 & part 2. And it's not really focused on Chloe or Clark other than in passing. What is the world coming too? *snicker*  
  
Def. of "conflagration" - a large, destructive fire, an inferno.  
  
------------------------------  
  
"Conflagration"  
  
by Chiri  
  
------------------------------  
  
He knew his way by heart. Down two flights of stairs, take a left to the corridor, take two rights, a left, and it was the third door from the right.  
  
Somewhere along the line this pigeon hole became his. It was dark, dank, and it reminded him far too much of a science fiction television show he watched as a kid. The only exception was there wasn't any partner for him to work with - even when there were, they NEVER looked like Gillian Anderson.  
  
He opened the door with a flick of his wrist, and breathed deep. The oder of this office reminded him of a mixture of a book store and some of his grade school classes. It smelled of all the paper, the wooden desks, even the permanent markers. He closed his eyes, breathing once more. If he took a deep enough breath, he swore he could smell something else.  
  
Knowledge.  
  
It was a tangible thing in this line of work. It could coat you, fly by you, saturate you. You spend your whole life time trying to find the key to a puzzle and never find it or stumble upon it while singing in your shower.  
  
He hadn't intended when he first signed on that he would end up in some little hole in the ground. Looking around he realize that part of the reason he was in this room was the feeling of familiarity. Another was the way it seemed to flash back to simpler days.  
  
Days when his whole world had been nothing but the simple life. It revolved around his academics and his sports, his family and friends, and his girl. He had been so wrapped up in life then. Wrapped up in her.  
  
This room was a sanctuary. It could protect him as well as it could protect its collection. Between the knowledge in these files and the smallness of the room, there was no wonder why it reminded him of the Torch Office, even if he didn't visit them regularly back when he was in high school.  
  
Whitney Fordman sighed and entered his room of the paranormal. He sure wasn't any David Duchovny, either. From the Marines and college he had shifted to Intelligence and onward into the FBI.  
  
The hoards of files, photos, film, discs, and recordings could boggle the mind. He had read them all. This room had everything that Kansas had to offer on the strange, the weird.  
  
It no longer unnerved him that his hometown took up over seventy-five percent of the room. He had seen enough to know that the meteorites of '89 was changing people - even in high school. It wasn't normal or usually allowed for agents to work on cases that could affect them. He knew something had to have been pulled.  
  
A lightly tinted purple sheet of paper, crumpled, was still on his desk. He uncreased an re-read the familar words. The words telling him he could head the bureau if he wanted. All he had to do was agree to work for Lex.  
  
He squeezed his hand into an unrelenting fist, the paper still in his palm. His body shook in anger. Never.  
  
A few months ago, all kind of clippings showed up addressed to him. He was halfway through the first box when he realized where they were from. All relating to Smallville, all with the same pricked pages... all from the Wall of Weird.  
  
He had poured through everything in his office after that. Whitney tore through every piece from Chloe's collection, any detail he could find. He let the information soak into him like a sponge. And one day, in the middle of looking through old police reports, it hit him.  
  
He wondered why he didn't realize earlier. Briefly pondered why he was still alive after stringing Kryptonite around the world's savior.  
  
Clark Kent was Superman.  
  
After the initial shock wore off, he had laughed. Laughed until he cried. Kent - flying around in blue spandex and red Speedos with a huge "S" on his chest. An "S" not dissimilar to one Kent had worn as a teenager due to his own stupidity with a can of spray paint.  
  
It all made sense now. Why Clark had blamed everything upon himself, why he had never been in sports, why he used to trip up when ever he was around Lana.  
  
Lana Lang, who had off and married Peter Ross. Who was sleeping with Lex Luthor. Lana Lang, who was in no way the sweet girl he had once loved.  
  
He had looked up people he had known. Pete had done well. Clark was a journalist with one Lois Lane. When he first lost track of Chloe in the files, he had briefly toyed with the notion that Lois and Chloe were the same. He had a whole list that would imply that to be true, if not for the fact that he knew it wasn't.  
  
It had been a long morning. The *President* had called him in for a special meeting about his proposal. He could head the FBI... if Whitney could explain what revelations he had about Smallville, Kryptonite, and Clark Kent. Pete had seemed to be stewing as he looked out the window. Chloe had sat there giving him a blank stare in utter silence.  
  
His mind wouldn't drop the fact that four Smallvillians were in the Oval Office. Whitney wasn't sure whether it was Lex Luthor's sick way of keeping them all underneath his thumb yet again or whether it was the billionaire's compulsive behavior to know everything about the sleepy little town. Or better yet, were they all just pawns in the President's endless chess game with Superman, the one where Lex thinks he will win and be hero so it doesn't matter what he does to achieve his goals? He knew for sure now that Lex had sent him the Wall, and the implication of that left him sick.  
  
He had said no.  
  
Whitney wasn't dumb as everyone thought. And he wasn't as naive or as stupid as he had been in high school. He knew there had to be some 'dark' thing that Lex would pull out on him sooner or later. More likely, sooner. He figured by morning, Whitney Fordman would be gone, just as Chloe Sullivan had been, and only brought back when he was needed. When he would be submissive, when he would be of use.  
  
He pulled out two large bottles of bourbon from his desk. No one noticed or cared if there was alcohol in his office as long as the work got done. Work, heh. Yes, it would work.  
  
Lex worked fast. Whitney would work faster.  
  
The papers were old, dry. The actual problems would be making sure the computers would catch. There wasn't time to disassemble anything. Using his thumb as a stopper, he liberally doused the office and its equipment in the high proof liquid. When he ran out he smashed the bottles against the wall, not like anyone would care. Or hear, he was the only one on this level anyway.  
  
He pulled out his Zippo. Sometimes being a chain smoker had its benefits. He lit it, bringing it to the trail and watching flames fan out over his office. Blue-white flames licked the floor and metal before orange plumes sprung out from the file folders. He watched for a few moments lighting up, while doing so.  
  
Whitney walked down the hallway, the crackles of the fire claiming more and more of Smallville's mystery. At the end of his hall -- though he supposed it wasn't his hall any longer -- he pulled the fire alarm and proceeded out to the sun. He knew he needed to hide. Maybe he would be considered dead, maybe he would be hunted down. He wasn't sure. But the fire... it had felt like a release.  
  
A release from Lex. From Smallville. From Superman. From Chloe's old passion. From *knowing.*  
  
As he started up his Dodge Ram, he was pretty sure the saying was true. Ignorance was bliss. And he was going to try his damnedest to forget.  
  
-end- - end - 


End file.
